Sashay Magazine / March 2010 / The Dog-ter Will See You Now

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The Dog-ter Will See You Now

 

There are studies galore that tell us how valuable pets can be as therapy tools. Do a Google search for pet therapy and you’ll see what I mean. However, I don’t need doctors or therapy experts to tell me this. I know how valuable they are. Not because I’ve read the research or heard from professionals. I know because I’ve seen it first hand with my own son, Mike.

At 9 years old, Mike was diagnosed with Pervasive Developmental Delay, a mild form of autism. Looking at him, you would never guess he has a disability. His challenges are not obvious. Mike’s struggles are internal. He lacks the skills to interpret social cues like tone of voice and facial expressions. He has no “theory of the mind,” the ability to put himself in someone else’s shoes. He doesn’t know how to interact with people. The hardest part? Mike is painfully aware of his differences, but doesn’t understand why or what to do about it. As such, making friends or otherwise “blending in” has never been easy for him. It causes him endless anxiety and frustration.

Mike’s treatment history reads like something out of a medical journal, encompassing everything from medications to behavioral analysis. Unfortunately, few therapies addressed our biggest concern—his violent outbursts. We knew they were caused by anxiety, but no one seemed equipped to help us deal with them. Mike couldn’t apply the techniques therapists tried in vain to teach him. Somewhere between learning and applying, Mike got stuck, lost. His outbursts further alienated him from children his own age.
In July 2004, we found an unlikely, but highly successful solution. We adopted a dog from the local pound. The idea was two pronged. We wanted Mike to learn responsibility, just like any other boy his age. More importantly, we wanted Mike to have a friend. He needed someone other than family who would love him, warts and all.

At the pound, they brought us several dogs. The last dog was skinny, dirty, and clearly had issues. He wasn’t sure what to make of us, staying to the far end of the visiting area. If you reached out to touch him, he scurried away. He didn’t act like a dog at all. Quirks notwithstanding, less than a minute into our visit, Mike announced this was the one. We brought the dog home and in less than 24 hours, he had aptly earned the name Bandit. He stole everything from food to the couch, even my scotch.

Our family joked that only Mike could have found an autistic dog. Bandit didn’t play, didn’t want his face or tail touched, hated loud noises, loved my scotch, and preferred garbage to a dog bowl. No amount of scolding changed his behaviors; he just didn’t get it. Understandably, Mike could identify. The two became an inseparable pair. Bandit tolerated Mike’s idiosyncrasies as no other child could. Like two peas in a pod, their bond was immediate and unbreakable. Finally, Mike had a friend. Bandit clearly adored Mike. That is, until Mike erupted into an outburst.

During an outburst, Bandit would cower under my desk –90 pounds of uber-furry dog crammed into a space barely big enough for my feet. Over time, seeing this reaction flipped a switch somewhere deep in Mike’s head. Somehow, he began to associate Bandit’s behavior with his own. Bandit opened a locked door for us. He became an external thermostat for Mike, showing him when he was getting out of hand.

It was truly a turning point, a breakthrough. One we had prayed for month after month after month. The changes weren’t overnight, but they happened. Little by little, Bandit helped Mike make the kind of process we had begun to think impossible. Mike started applying things he had been taught about self-regulating. He watched how Bandit responded and modified his behavior accordingly. The development of their relationship and Mike’s progress was nothing short of amazing.

Mike is 16 now, getting ready to start mainstream public school. The idea of public high school was unimaginable just a few years ago. He still struggles with the world, but he’s learning. Every day he gets a little closer to “getting it.” This past Christmas marked a full year since his last outburst. He’s even managed to make a few human friends, too.

Bandit regrettably, is no longer with us. I miss that scotch-stealing, garbage-eating, hair-on-my-couch-leaving fleabag. We might never have gotten through to Mike without him. Thousands of dollars and hours of therapy, and the answer lay in a ball of fur and bad habits. I owe Bandit a great deal. He opened the door to the son I always hoped was in there, somewhere.

Sandi Johnson is a full time freelance writer and part-time rancher. When she’s not writing for a living, she home schools her teenage sons, plays with her dogs, and tries to reclaim and renovate an old neglected farm. Someday (hopefully before she’s put out to pasture herself) the farm will be home to horses, cattle, and maybe a stray chicken or two, if she can ever clear enough land and finish remodeling the house. Check her out at www.theblueinkwell.com